Feast & Requiem

By John Torgrimson

The Funeral Feast

Jamis stopped by our leaf hut at daybreak to invite me and Pat to his father’s funeral feast. He was on his way to his bush garden to pick sweet potatoes and yams for the celebration.

The sun at dawn was muted, splayed across the horizon in a glow of amber, the nocturnal creatures still yelling and singing in the humid haze of the jungle. In an hour they would become silent with the rise of the sun, letting the parrots and cockatoos working the day shift take their turn at noise making.

“When did old Festus die?” I asked sleepily. The water was still hot in the kettle and I handed a cup of instant coffee, with great gobs of sweet and condensed milk, to Jamis.

It was not unusual for people to just up and die in the jungles of Guadalcanal pneumonia, malaria, old age or a combination of maladies just too overwhelming for most malnourished bodies to withstand. People were always saying, “Oh, it’s just the flu – hacking and coughing, bundled in jackets and blankets in the 90-degree heat, until one day they would just slip away.

Or they would blame it on the Vele Man a minute invisible voodoo sorcerer, with a tiny basket of black magic, who would cast spells on the innocent and not so innocent as they walked by. The Vele is fast and can circle the entire island in a second. He needs to see you before you see him in order to work his spells.

After three days with a fever, people would say, “Mai karange, Vele hem e kasem mi bigtaem.” (My goodness, the Vele really got me.)

People that were sometimes on the outs with the tribe were often accused of being Veles or at least in cahoots with him. When you’d say that the storekeeper was too tall to be a Vele, they’d say that when he becomes a Vele he assumes a different form. They were convinced of this logic, and no religion was going to tell them otherwise. And so, blaming the Vele Man explained the unexplainable to those living this hard, short life.

The village chief’s three-year-old son, a chubby little gremlin, who was always wondering around the village naked, died from malaria or the Vele depending on whom you talked to. His father took him to the doctor and to a medicine man on the off chance that one of them would come up with a cure. He was a cute little bugger.

And now Festus was dead. “Good God,” I said to Jamis. “I didn’t even know that your father was sick.”

“He’s not. And he’s not dead either. Not, yet anyway, ” countered Jamis in an exasperated tone. “But he thinks he’s going to and wants to have a feast before it’s too late. I told him to wait awhile, but he insisted.”

He stopped for a moment to sip his coffee and let this bit of coconut news sink in.

“I came by on my way to the garden to invite you, ” he went on. “My old man would be pleased if ruka monesere (the two white folks) would come.”

Jamis was one of the villagers we liked most. Tall for a Solomon Islander, he was easy going and hardworking, certainly one of the leaders on the cacao project we were heading up as Peace Corps Volunteers. About six months into our two-year stint, we found ourselves at a culturally loss over Festus’ funeral request and concluded there was much more we needed to learn about the ways of the people in our village. We told Jemis we would be honored to come.

My wife, Pat, and I were community development workers assigned to three resettlement villages on the north coast of Guadalcanal. The villagers had been displaced the previous year when an earthquake wiped out their villages and killed 11 people. The newly independent government had moved them from the weathercoast, on the windward side of the island, to Crown land about 20 miles from the capital, Honiara. Funding from Europe’s Common

Market was helping with their resettlement and supporting efforts for the villagers to adopt cash crop farming methods to replace the traditional slash and burn farming they were accustomed to. This is how we found ourselves living in a jungle village, developing a cacao plantation.

Of the more than 200 islands in the Solomon Islands chain, located between New Guinea and Fiji, Guadalcanal is one of the largest islands at 90 by 35 miles, with central mountains splitting the island down the length of it. Several battles in the Pacific during World War II took place on Guadalcanal or in its waters, colloquially known as Iron Bottom Sound due to the tonnage lying at the bottom of the sea. And 40 years later, visible remnants from the fighting dotted the shore line and unexploded ordnance rotted away in the jungles. Most people lived in remote villages, with small population centers on the islands and provincial centers.

Although Festus was a convert to the Anglican church, this practice of funeral feasts without a corpse was a customary rite handed down from tribal tradition. Most churches frowned on these old ways, but Festus was determined to follow the customs of his people. “The priest doesn’t need to know,” he would tell me later.

Traditionally, funerals were elaborate affairs, sometimes lasting several days. In the old days, they would bury a chief and other big men in the sitting position, a few inches under the ground’s surface. And every day women from the village would pour water through a bamboo tube onto the head to encourage decomposition of the flesh around the skull. Eventually, the shrunken skull was detached from the body and placed in the Haus Tambu. This holy place was a memorial to the big men of the village and was a visible connection for the tribe to its ancestral past.

The custom of the funeral feast is about the passing of the torch to the next generation. In front of the entire community, Festus gave instructions to each of his children. To Jamis, he said: “This house, and the family that lives inside it, that which has been mine for all of these years, is now yours.”

Festus reached into a brown satchel made out of pandanas leaf and pulled out some items. “I came into this world with nothing and I will leave with nothing,” he said.

He handed some traditional shell money to Jamis. “This money has been in our family for a long time. It connects me to those before me. It connects me to those who come after me. And so, too, you will pass it on to others in our line.”

The ceremony concluded with different people praising Festus. Many of the eulogies acknowledged his adherence to the old ways “Man e blong kastom” was uttered more than once. A man who follows the old customs and traditions is held in high esteem in village society.

I wasn’t prepared to say anything, content being a bystander at this event, but Jamis asked me if I would speak.

“Festus is a simple man, a hardworking man,” I began, a bit unsure whether to use present or past tense since the deceased-to-be-was standing a few yards from me puffing on a pipe. “A man who always takes responsibility for his actions. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does he always has something important to say and people listen. I have much respect for him.”

Festus smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. This prompted me to add, “and I hope he lives to see several more grandchildren come into this world.” To which Festus replied in Pidgin English, “Mi no save duim. Mi kolsup dae nao.” (Can’t do it; I’m close to dying now).

Requiem

Every afternoon, about five o’clock, when the sun has turned and the heat of the day is beginning to wane, about the time that 10,000 Vietnamese refugees have finished English classes for the day and are making the long march to their billets to fry their meager rations in chilies and garlic and fish sauce, at a time when the camp workers are heading to the Guest House to quaff their thirst on ice cold San Miguel at four pesos a bottle, Doug Ramsey emerges from the head office.

Tall and thin, his manners Quakerish, Ramsey is a solitary figure, his head slightly bent downward as he walks. He has a look of distraction as if he, and he alone, populates the world in which he lives in.

The feast was a grand party, with Festus presiding. Freshly killed pigs baked in an earthen oven alongside sweet potatoes, cassava, taro and yams, all served on banana leaves. The whole village turned out for the event, gorging themselves on the takings.

We saw Festus a few times after the party and he always looked happy and well. Then one day, about two months after the funeral feast, he died in his sleep. We didn’t bother to ask what he died of. Old age, cancer, malaria what difference did it make? There was no terminal diagnosis from a doctor in the capital, he just knew he was going to die and so he did.

He was buried on slightly descending grassland facing the Pacific Ocean. As funerals go, his was the most casual one I’d ever been to. No sniffling, no sobs, no keening. Just an Anglican priest, a few words of praise to God, and the sound of sand and gravel falling on a wooden box.

In life Festus was both illiterate and impoverished with few possessions. But from the time of his funeral feast, he was somehow able to rise above his station in life and the simple trappings of the poor jungle village he lived in. It was through his journey to death that Festus, perhaps for the first time in his life, was in control of his own destiny and could see his way forward clearly. He died a rich man.

He wears a Filipino Barong, a shirt made out of natural fibers that lets air move through it. It is the national dress shirt for men in the Philippines and, while it feels cool, Westerners always appear awkward wearing them too tall in the saddle to look normal.

Ramsey keeps no council. He has no friends in the conventional sense, only acquaintances and colleagues. Even the Vietnamese, whose plight has occupied his adult life, do not enter his realm. In many respects it’s as if he does not exist, although his office is the juncture between Asia and the United States for thousands of migrants. As Refugee Coordinator, he is the liaison for the Department of State, for INS, the U S Embassy and official U S government refugee programs.

More than a few backdoor operations move through his circle of knowledge MIA/POW people, Army Intelligence, people who live and work in that nether world between official and unofficial duties like Pete, who drank double scotches with me the night my son was born in Manila and who lives part of the year in Hanoi.

Most days at this time, Ramsey enters the Guest House to sit down at the lone piano. Before he begins to play he rests his hands on the keys and closes his eyes and quietly contemplates what is to come, recalling in his own mind the essence of the piece, its highs and lows, where it rises into lofty crescendos and where it falls down into the lowly depths where the agonies and mysteries of life perform.

He begins a search through his mind of the sights and sounds, even the smells and sweatstained terror that is to come. This requiem bears little resemblance to Vivaldi or Mozart. Ramsey’ s god is more Wagnerian in its darkness, this an aria to the demons that haunt the dark side of humanity.

Ramsey memorized his requiem note by note over a seven-year period of torturous malarial captivity along the Cambodian frontier in the hands of the National Liberation Front a military arm of the North Vietnamese. A disciple of John Paul Vann, he and Daniel Ellsberg were some of the first converts to Vann’s methods of winning the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people. Pretty heady company: Vann, one the most celebrated strategists of the Vietnam War and the principle character in one of the definitive books about the Vietnam conflict Neil Sheehan’ s Bright Shining Lie; and Ellsberg, the man who released the “Pentagon Papers” and helped bring down a president.

Ramsey plays for a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. His body moves to the madness of the music, his torso seeming to rise out of the piano bench. His eyes are closed, his hair blowing in the wind from the veranda, the muscles of his jaw and cheeks taut.

There is no musical score to guide his skillful playing. All of the music comes from his memory just as it did when he was creating it, building it note by note as a distraction, as a hypnotic balm, from his misery, all seven years and some odd days of his imprisonment. Each day he would replay in his mind what he had created the day before and the day before that until he could recall from memory, on an October day in another time and another place, every excruciating note.

If you listen closely, you can hear the everpresent fever that comes with malaria, hunger, dysentery, fear and pain. And if you close your eyes, you too can see the impenetrable jungle cage where he was kept, and you can hear the morning dew drip-drip-dripping as steam rises with each wakening breath, and you can watch each and every day die when hope descends in the shadows of the mountains.

Steve Toth

Life’s Work

The local news man taunted me & he smiled Asked how does it feel knowing you’ve spent so much time & effort on something nobody cares about?

Is knowing better than not knowing? Who’s the stranger here? It’s true for the most part that poetry is uncalled for & you can’t tell people what they should be reading

I paid no mind to the ones busy analyzing the personal into the sentimental Instead I listened to the ones who said stick to what you’re good at

Some are afraid of the dark Others are afraid the darkness will leave them behind When will my life’s work begin? Did language tell us apart? Is this a trick question?

Love Poem 19

I don’t know what life is made of but judging by the amount of pain killers we humans take It must hurt like the dickins

Love is the good stuff Love is what brings us together Love is what connects us Love has a life of its own We didn’t leave non-existence to live in a world without love

You’ve got a way about you I can’t find my way without you When the waves of pain come roaring on the rocks don’t say “good-bye” whisper “I love you”

Come On

First they lionize you then they demonize you Word gets around Come on the writhing wind with a pathological need to be right

Caught in life’s cross hairs

An earthquake will be your only tsunami warning

That’s the way they’ll do you

The oil companies have their pipes & the Native Americans have theirs

I like a pipe organ with a beat I can dance to along with a few choice words Oh but it’s lonely at the top of the food chain

Some people say “cheese” when they take a picture Others say “trees” Just say what we’re all thinking I don’t want my spirit crushed What others call redundancy I call incantation

Set your language on “stun” I’m going to swallow my tears

Ashyer James Petrillo

From the novel Ashyer a Rocket Science Press new fantasy fiction release scheduled for Fall 2018

Frost heard the unmistakable sound of arrows leaving their strings and slicing through the air. Instinctively he leapt from the forest path. Thunk thunk. Two arrows pierced thick oak bark just inches from his head.

Twilight was giving way to blackness in the woods, but Frost used his heightened senses to investigate the black projectiles, quivering still, the shafts oily with a fetid residue reeking of goblins.

Strange, he thought, the wizard had never before summoned foul beasts during training. Perhaps this session was meant to be more difficult?

Just then, Frost felt knuckles against his neck as a hand grabbed his tunic from behind and pulled him into the undergrowth. At the same time a voice said, “Do you want to be a pin cushion?”

Frost spun to see Ty pointing across a field of tall grass at goblins armed with bows and knives.

“I count at least ten,” Ty whispered.

Frost leaned close and whispered back, “What is Cirrus thinking sending goblins after us?”

Ty shrugged. “Maybe he’s just stepping up the game.”

“Something doesn’t feel right. This does not feel like a game.” Frost shook his head, then pointed. “Throw a decoy dart over there.”

Throwing darts were Ty’s weapon of choice. They were not as long as arrows and had short, feathered shafts and long, weighted, razor-sharp heads. Ty could throw one with some accuracy as far as sixty yards. Most were simple projectiles, but some were coated with colored potions and poisons. Some even glowed with magical enchantments.

Ty picked a simple dart and whipped it effortlessly into the undergrowth on the left side of the clearing. The goblins, hearing the rustle of thorn bushes where the dart had landed, stopped and turned to look. Frost and Ty watched the vile creatures grunting to each other in their guttural language. The creatures had mottled black-and-green skin, gnarled and wrinkled like a wart-wracked toad. They drooled from their sharpened teeth, and their eyes glowed in the dark like a cat’s as they searched the spot where the dart had landed.

Quietly Frost gave his command. “I’ll go straight in. You circle to the right.”

Ty nodded and the two separated. The wind had picked up. Suddenly the air seemed charged with electricity. Frost noted the change immediately. “The wizard. Let’s dispatch these wretches first. Then we’ll deal with the wizard.”

Frost reached under his cloak and quietly produced his unique bow. His own design, Frost had worked closely with both the bowyers and the weaponsmiths to produce a bow made entirely of steel. His was the most powerful and accurate bow in the kingdom, perhaps in the entire known world. A clever system of cables and pulleys allowed a steel bowstring to be used an engineering marvel that had convinced some of his subjects that Frost might himself be a wizard.

He pulled three arrows from the quiver that hung from his belt. He saw Ty almost in position when the goblins turned back in his direction, their pig-like snouts twitching. How can they smell anything but themselves, he wondered, putrid as they are? He lightly planted two of the arrows in the soft ground at his feet and nocked the third to his string. Then he stood and revealed himself.

Upon spotting their quarry, the goblins triumphantly shrieked their earsplitting battle cry, but Frost was quicker than they supposed. Before they could begin their charge, the lead goblin was gazing wide-eyed at an arrow that had sprouted from the center of his chest. Before he had time to fall, two more were stung one with a killing shot to the neck; the other in its knobby thigh, the arrow passing through flesh and sinew out the other side.

Two were down and a third was limping, but that still left eight goblins now scampering over their fallen brethren and rushing on him with their knives drawn. Frost well knew that once they fell upon him it would render his death-raining weapon impotent.

But even as Frost continued to fire arrow after arrow on the advancing horde, a new volley began to whistle in from their left flank. Ty’s darts found their marks with meaty thunks.

“Reap!” Ty yelled, a code word meant to signal Frost to close his eyes momentarily. The next dart he threw released its enchantment when it hit its target, sending out a spray of colorful but blinding sparks, similar to the magic fireworks they saw at the harvest celebration. The goblins hesitated in their charge, momentarily stunned and blinded.

“By the gods!” Ty yelled as he let fly yet another dart, “These buggers smell even worse when you fill them with holes and air them out!”

Frost cracked a smile, but his momentary amusement turned to panic when he opened his eyes post-fireworks display to see the shadowy silhouettes of several more goblins emerging from the trees behind Ty. Just as he was yelling a warning to his friend, an unusually large goblin barrelchested, nearly as tall as a man, and draped in rough hide armor picked up Ty and tossed him through the air.

Ty, with reflexes that would put a fox to the test, swung his arm back even as he was being thrown like a rag-doll, slicing the goblin’s hand with the dart that he was about to throw. Then he was sailing twenty feet through the air, further into the center of the grassy clearing. Like a seasoned acrobat he rolled and was undamaged from the fall. He sprung to his feet again to fling the dart he still clutched at the beast that had just tossed him.

Unfortunately, the goblin’s moldy hide armor turned aside the dart. It was not one of Ty’s more graceful throws, heaving his projectile a goodly ways but lacking deadly force.

Fortunately, the enraged goblin suddenly became wobbly. Poison from the cut to his hand as he threw Ty was quickly taking effect. He staggered, taking a few more steps forward, grunted, and fell face-first to the ground. Only a ragged snore indicated he was still alive.

The others now hesitated. The remaining few backed off, as did the ones that had come in behind Ty. They regrouped around the edges of the clearing, taking stock.

“Leave me,” Ty said to Frost with utter sincerity. “There are more coming in. We’re outnumbered ten to one. I can hold them off while you make your escape, my Liege.”

“Oh, don’t get all formal on me now, for the first time in your life,” Frost chided him. “I would never leave you, my friend.”

Suddenly, lightning flashed above them, illuminating the hungry, greedy faces of the beasts all around. Frost shuddered at the sight of those faces, thinking, They plan on eating us raw tonight.

But the goblins’ hateful faces began to register fear as the energy permeating the atmosphere intensified.

The wizard descended in an electromagnetic sphere.

Frost yelled, “Summoning goblins is a pretty dirty trick, Cirrus!”

“I suppose you had your eye on us the whole time?” Ty said. “Just waiting until the last moment to intervene?”

“I would never summon such vile filth!” The wizard boomed from above them.

Then, his voice came again, but this time as a whisper in their ears, a voice only they could hear. “This horde is not part of your exercise. Things are afoot that are well beyond my control.”

Frost felt momentary vindication that his initial gut instinct had been right: Cirrus would never have done something like this, but the feeling was quickly replaced by a sinking feeling. We’ re surrounded by goblins in a situation that is beyond the wizard’s control?

“What do we do, Cirrus?” Frost muttered under his breath, knowing the wizard would hear him.

Cirrus’s answer was not terribly reassuring. “The goblins are held at bay by fear at the moment, but their hunger will soon prod them to a desperate, bestial bravery. I cannot kill them all. If I strike, the remaining ones will likely rip you two to pieces.”

“We know all that,” Ty said impatiently, “But do you have a plan?”

“Of course I do.” The wizard’s reply was tinged with mild annoyance. “When have you known me not to have a plan? When I strike them, Ty, throw your vial of fire potion straight up. Aim it at me. Put a good spin to it. Then, just before it hits me, Frost, fire an arrow directly at the center of its base. You must both be precise.”

Ty shook his head as he produced the vial. “Sounds like a dicey plan.”

“I didn’t say it would work,” Cirrus said. “Only that it is a plan.”

Frost nocked an arrow. The goblins, seeing this action on the part of their prey, rallied, breaking the stalemate, and they rushed in.

“Now!” Cirrus’s voice boomed.

Lightning crackled out from the wizard’s sphere and roasted half the goblins. At the same moment Ty tossed the potion up, putting a fast spin on it. Frost, honed by hours of practice shooting thrown targets, took split-second aim and let loose the arrow. The bottle exploded. Due to the spin, its contents flew outward, raining down in a fiery ring around them. The grass all about the remaining goblins was set ablaze. Their ragged clothes and greasy hair catching fire, most of the inhuman creatures scattered and fled into the forest.

“We provided them the fire but denied them their supper to cook over it,” Ty said. His nonchalant sense of humor never seemed to ebb, even in the midst of a life-or-death situation.

The sphere encasing the wizard settled to the ground, then it flickered like a candle flame and vanished. Cirrus stepped over a smoldering body and raised his staff. “Don’t underestimate the tenacity of the hungry goblin. They have not all fled.”

Ty produced a dagger. Down to his last two arrows, Frost readied his bow. True to Cirrus’ s pronouncement, several half-dead and even burning goblins rushed forward, their rage and hunger driving them to attack even in their death throes. The three men cut down the remaining predators until the only movement in the clearing was wisps of smoke from the smoldering grass.

After a few minutes of rest, the two young men stamped out the last burning patches, lest the whole forest go up. Cirrus even cast a spell that produced a shower of water on a tree that had begun to blaze. With that taken care of, the three set about the task of retrieving arrows and darts before they made their way into the woods. The battle might have drawn more unwanted attention, and they’d had their fill of goblins.

As they walked, just to break the silence, Ty said, “Well, old man, next time we do that exercise could you cut the numbers of the goblin horde down by about half?”

“I told you I had nothing to do with that ” Cirrus began to protest, but Frost intervened.

“Cirrus, you know he is just trying to get your goat.”

“Well,” the wizard grumbled, “I do not have a goat, and if I did I certainly would not give it to him. He would probably just try to steal it anyway.” Cirrus frowned and looked severe, but both students could recognize the ever-so-slight flicker of amusement in Cirrus’s voice. If it had been lighter out, they knew they’d see that tale-tell quiver at the corner of his mouth, indicating he was suppressing a chuckle.

Though a magician of some repute, Cirrus was actually not quite old enough to be their father. He felt like an older brother, or an uncle, perhaps. Although he tried to be firm and harsh with them, the wizard was fond of both boys. Young men, now, he thought. Soon to be called upon to take on their responsibilities as men. Sooner, perhaps, than we thought. Xan, my King, I hope we have prepared them well.

After that brief exchange, they fell into silence, as if the weight of the night was now settling in on them, and they turned inward to their own melancholy thoughts.

Frost’s wavy, dark brown hair fell wildly down his back. He thought, What would the ladies of the court think if they saw their prince in such a state, and smiled. His tunic and cloak were black, since the training exercise was supposed to have been one in forest stealth. At nineteen, he was still sheltered from most of the pressures and responsibilities of state, and he generally had a carefree air of happiness about him. Ty probably had something to do with that: ever since he had come to live with Frost in the palace, that insubordinate thief from the streets was dependable for deflating any tendency toward pomposity or showy formality.

Ty followed close behind him, always alert even if his casual bearing did not show it. Ty, the same age as Frost, was shorter and slighter, but he was quite agile. His blonde hair was tied back tight so it would make no noise, and any but the most sensitive forest tracker listening to their footfalls would swear there were only two men passing through the woods.

The wizard led the way, a soft glow at the tip of his staff acting as a lantern. Though his dark hair was beginning to show streaks of gray and he had a slightly sallow look, he had only seen seventeen summers more than his pupils. He wore a dark blue robe that seemed to be sewn from the fabric of twilight itself. He led them carefully up a hill toward the Great Road.

The moon had started to rise as they cleared the forest, and they all stopped to look at it for a moment. As always, they were struck with wonder at its beauty coupled with dread at what it had brought to their world, the world of Ashyer.

The “moon ” of Ashyer was, in fact, a planet. Its orbit had brought it ever closer the past few weeks. The time was drawing near when it would pass its closest to Ashyer. As it rose, the moon filled half the horizon with its sickly yellow light. Later that night it would fill most of the sky, and they would be able to make out some surface features of that terrible world.

Once every year it happened, what some of Ashyer’s inhabitants called generally under their breath and with accompanying warding hand gestures the “Murder Moon.” It meant one thing for all the peoples of Ashyer: The dragons would come to pillage all the settlements, from the lowliest hamlet to the greatest kingdom. The only protection from utter destruction was to broker a deal with the dragons.

Cirrus shook his head at the moon dismissively and continued walking. Pushing away their own thoughts of the coming dragons, Ty and Frost followed.

“There are always a few living here on Ashyer,” Cirrus said as they resumed their hike. “Dragons I mean. Some of them stay behind. I was just thinking about them.”

Frost cast another involuntary glance at the yellow blight on the horizon. “How can you not, with that thing in the sky to remind us?”

“‘Twas not always so, Fredris. Since your father is one of the last of the immortals, he can remember a time when that cursed moon did not appear in the sky.”

“Can’t you just call me Frost?” Frost replied with more irritation in his voice than he’d intended. “You did when we were in battle.”

“Very well, Prince Frost, as you command.” Ty started to chuckle.

“Prince Frost? That’s even worse.” Frost said, deliberately modulating his voice back to a more casual register.

“Like it or not, Frost, you may be king someday. Whether your father be immortal or not.” Cirrus’ s statement sounded rather enigmatic, but before Frost could prod him and try to unravel this riddle, Cirrus crested the hill.

Frost caught up and looked down. On the other side of the hill only a few miles east lay the ocean and the capitol city of Olan; the castle, his home, on the top of a hill southeast of the port and south of Olan Bay. “Father is an immortal, so I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

Ty joined them, sounding much more serious than usual when he said, “There’s a reason he is one of the last, Frost.”

Cirrus glanced at Ty, then turned back to Frost. “I would not have put it quite that way, but Master Ty is right. Your father is an immortal, but he is not indestructible.”

Frost frowned in thought. “We have had peace in Olan for centuries, though, since we made the deal with the dragons.”

Cirrus looked to the south. “Things change, Frost,” he said quietly.

Frost turned to follow Cirrus’s gaze. Only a half mile off, the Great Road crested a hill. The road had existed since before Olan and was therefore a mystery. Two parallel stone corridors, the Great Road was wide enough to put three wagons across on either side. It stretched from one ocean to the other on its westward journey. Usually only a few caravans or adventurers traveled it, but on that night, it seemed the entire army of Olan streamed westward upon its ancient stones. From their vantage point on the hill, the three of them could see the column of men marching toward a camp just to the southwest of their position. The sound of horses and armor reached their ears.

“Who are we fighting?” Ty asked.

“King Xan Olan received a message of a massive goblin army approaching from the west only days ago. His scout confirmed it just this day. I did not expect any to have come far enough east yet for us to encounter them in your training.”

“What do they think they are doing?” Frost said, perhaps a tad boastfully. “We will wipe them clean of this land without losing a single man.”

“The goblins are allied with the dragons,” Cirrus said. “We do not yet know what this may mean.”

“We will join them,” Frost declared boldly and began toward the camp.

Cirrus grabbed his arm. “I’ve given my word to your father that I would keep you away. I am sorry.”

Frost eyed the wizard suspiciously. “I suppose that means you would use magic if necessary?”

With no malice, Cirrus said, “Yes. I am sorry. However, we can camp near the road and build a fire, so we may see what is to come, if you wish.”

“I suppose that’s the best I can get, huh?” As if weighing the prospects and suddenly making peace with the situation, Frost shrugged, smiling, and said, “Come on, Ty, let’s go make camp.”

The three walked along the hilltop south toward the Great Road, collecting scraps of wood as they went. When they were close enough to be identified by the passing army as allies, they stopped and built a small fire. Cirrus produced a wine skin and some salted meat and passed it to Frost. Ty tended to the fire and then joined his companions, sitting down cross-legged in the grass.

“There in the distance, Frost, can your remarkable eyes see it?” Cirrus was pointing.

“Fires. Maybe hundreds.”

Ty strained to make out anything and shook his head resignedly. “I don’t see a thing. I wish I had your bloodline, Frost. Or at least your eye-line.”

“You can have it. Besides, you have long-blood in you. Your mother was long-born.”

Ty shook his head again. “It doesn’t make me long nor does it let me see any better.”

Cirrus looked appraisingly at the two. “No one can predict the outcome of the mingling of the blood. Many have remarked upon your uncanny dexterity, Ty. As if your mother had been a cat.”

Ty lifted an eyebrow. “A cat, eh? You know, I could take that the wrong way.”

Frost, seeing an opportunity perhaps to pry some information from their normally private and tight-lipped teacher, chimed in. “So, I guess I’ ve never asked … how did you end up with wizard’ s blood?”

“Well, let me think.” The wizard produced a smoking pipe from a pocket in his robe, tamped in some tobacco from another pocket, and lit the pipe with a twig from the fire.

Ty rolled his eyes. “Great. Here comes a history lesson.”

Frost punched him in the shoulder. “I want to know; shut it.” Ty rubbed his shoulder and grinned. Frost didn’t pull his punches much, but the gesture between the two of them was always friendly. Only once had they ever struck each other in anger, and that was before they knew they were destined to become Bloodtwins, sword brothers, companions of the heart.

Cirrus cleared his throat. “As you should know well by now or would if you were as eager for your book studies as you are for dashing about brandishing your weapons for the ladies in the practice yard the world of Ashyer was originally inhabited by three races: Angels, Immortals, and Giants. The sky, the land, and below. It was the mingling of the blood that made the rest of us. Angels and Immortals created the long men who have the power of magic hidden in their blood, though most cannot tap it. Immortals and Giants created the common men, who have no magic as far as anyone knows. And, in some terrible acts of cruelty, Angels and Giants created demons and all the foul spawn that wander the wilds, like those goblins marching from the west. Wizards came from the mingling of long and common blood, for it seems that in some common men and women lies the key to unlocking the magic of the long blood. Sometimes it takes generations for the key to surface. For me it was two generations ago. My grandfather was of common blood. To my knowledge, that is how my father and I gained the ability to cast and to speak to the elements.”

They all looked at the fire for a time, then Ty spoke up. “Has anyone ever seen an angel, the sky women?”

Cirrus shook his head. “Not in living memory has anyone seen an angel. Unfortunately, the race of winged women was decimated when the dragons arrived.”

Frost, still staring intently into the fire, asked, “Is my father the last one, the last Immortal?”

“I don’t know, Frost.” After a short silence, during which he took a long, thoughtful draw from his pipe, Cirrus added, “Your father is a good man, but not all Immortals were. Just as not all Giants were either giant or evil, not all Immortals were noble or honorable. Some of them were the worst tyrants this world has ever known. Sometimes Sometimes I hope he is the last.”

“You missed a race,” Ty said. “The offspring of Angels and Demons.”

“I would not call those disgusting affronts to nature a race, but yes. The undead were the spawn of a tortured angel at the hands of a demon. A mix of magic and the dead, horror beyond horror.”

Frost was in his own thoughts and not following the conversation. Speaking his own thoughts aloud again, he asked, “How long do you think I will live?”

Cirrus raised an eyebrow. “How long do you think I will?”

Frost caught the wizard’s meaning and chuckled, “Point taken.”

The fire crackled and started to die out. The fully risen moon provided ample light to see the progress of the army, however, and the three companions watched the slow progression.

Cirrus knocked the ashes of his pipe into the remains of the fire, rolled onto his side and said, “Get some rest, boys.”

Ty slapped his knee. “We’re men, old man.” Cirrus smiled. “As you will, Master Ty.”

Ty and Frost continued to watch the dying embers as they winked out, one by one.

Speaking more quietly so as not to wake the wizard, Ty asked, “Do you remember the day we met?”

“You mean the day you stalked me to rob me?”

“I wasn’t actually going to rob you. Someone needed to watch your back. What kind of prince wanders out to a forest lake alone to go swimming?”

Frost lay down on his side and muttered, “You had no idea who I was until you went through my things.”

“I was just curious. I wanted to know what kind of things a prince might take swimming.”

“Sure.” Frost’s eyes closed. He said something else, but it was an incoherent mumble that trailed away, weary exhaustion finally overtaking him.

Ty grinned. “Nothing very valuable unfortunately,” he said to no one in particular. He lay down beside his companions on the soft grass in the sickly moonlight. For a while he stared up at the moon. He could see tiny red mountain ranges, as if he were floating above looking down on them. He wondered what Ashyer looked like from over there, and then he was asleep.

Cirrus was shaking them. Frost and Ty opened their eyes to see the wizard crouched between them. The moon had not travelled far in the time they had slept. Only a couple of hours had passed. Frost looked to the road, but no soldiers were there. There was a great rumbling noise coming from the west. He sat up quick, and Cirrus held his shoulder tight.

From their vantage point the three could see, perhaps only a mile off, the army of Olan assembled at the base of the hill before a horde of thousands of goblins.

The goblins were banging swords and growling, their inhuman voices carrying up to their perch atop the hill. The knights were organizing ranks with shield bearers in the front to protect the archers. The goblins stood like a mob, pushing and yelling. Frost thought they looked like a filthy ocean that was threatening to spill over the army. That was when he realized the gravity of the situation. The goblins could win. Their numbers were enormous. Had his father wanted him out of the city in case they lost? Then he spotted it: his father’s pavilion.

“He’s down there!” Frost yelled at Cirrus.

“I know, Frost. Please stay here,” Cirrus said calmly.

A tear threatened to spill from Frost’s eye, and he wiped at it. “We could lose. He could be killed.”

“Your father is not so easily beaten, Frost.”

Before any more could be said, trumpets sounded and the army loosed arrows on the horde. Hundreds of goblins died in the first volley, but the rest seemed unswayed. A wave of thousands of goblins surged toward the army. More arrows flew, and the front line of goblins fell again, but it was not enough. Swords were unsheathed, and man met goblin in combat. As the two forces clashed, the sound was deafening

“Look!” Ty was pointing to the forest to the south.

The others saw what Ty had spotted. The mounted knights of Olan rode out from cover at full charge on their armored horses. Each horse was outfitted with razor sharp spikes. The Knights crashed into the ocean of goblins at full charge without slowing. They left a mangled trail of broken bodies in their wake.

The mob was thinning, and the goblins looked as if they were starting to scatter when there was a terrible crack from the sky. All looked up and saw it. An enormous dragon was streaking down to the battle.

Frost tried to leap to his feet, but Cirrus forced both him and Ty to lie down in the grass. They raised their heads only enough to see. The dragon was flying low over the battlefield as if assessing the state of affairs. Then, apparently deciding it was a lost cause for the goblins, it started breathing fire on everything, man and goblin alike.

Frost tried to wiggle free, but Cirrus held fast. The dragon circled around and inhaled deep. It was lining up behind the fleeing Knights of Olan. Just as the Knights reached the forest line, it exhaled massive flame, destroying trees and Knights as one. Frost dropped his face into the grass and began to weep. It was the voice of his father that made him raise his head again.

“Hear me, dragon!” Xan Olan stood on a small hill at the edge of the battle. His voice was barely audible over the chaos and fire. “Face me!”

The dragon turned in flight and landed in front of Xan. The battlefield was a scorched waste with very little moving.

“

YOU HAVE VIOLATED OUR AGREEMENT, ” the voice of the dragon boomed.

Then Xan was talking, but his voice could not be heard from the hill where the three lay in hiding.

“

SPARE ME YOUR LIES, ” the dragon answered whatever Xan had said. “YOU HAVE CREATED A FORBIDDEN WEAPON AND WILL BE DESTROYED!”

Before Frost could wonder what that meant, they heard another crack behind them. The three looked around and saw another dragon diving toward the castle.

“No ” Frost began, but before he could utter any kind of pointless plea, the dragon enveloped the castle in relentless fire. Frost was about to scream, but it was the scream of his father he heard. The three turned to look at the battlefield once more. The dragon that had accused his father was breathing fire in a steady stream. The figure of Xan Olan was silhouetted for a moment, then engulfed, and finally turned to ash.

Frost leaped to his feet. His blood quickened; the wizard too slow to stop him. Pulling his bow, the archer ran at a non-human pace toward the dragon.

The appearance of Frost caught the dragon off guard. Frost did not hesitate. He released two steel arrows almost simultaneously and struck the dragon in both eyes, piercing the soft ocular flesh easily. Fire exploded from the wounded sockets almost instantly, shooting straight at Frost, but Cirrus and Ty arrived in time to deflected the flames and pull Frost to the ground.

“Quiet, you fool,” Cirrus hissed into Frost’s ear.

The dragon roared and spit flame wildly. Tents and pavilions were engulfed all around them. Finally, the dragon took off. Roaring in pain and smoking from the eyes, it flew toward the moon. The three watched as it was joined by the other dragon and disappeared into the yellow sky.

Frost buried his face in the scorched grass and wept. Cirrus and Ty continued to stare dumbstruck at the moon. When they were sure there were no more dragons coming, Ty and Cirrus sat up. Frost clenched his head with his hands and wept harder. Ty started to reach for his friend, but Cirrus stayed him. “Let him be for a moment, Master Ty.”

Cirrus and Ty rose and walked toward the battlefield so as to give Frost some space, barely taking their eyes off the moon.

“Do they really fly to the moon?” Ty asked in a low quivering voice. “That seems impossible.”

“It does seem impossible,” Cirrus answered. “I am not an expert on the heavens, but such a feat must be assisted with powerful magic, I would suppose.”

“I thought dragons couldn’t use magic. That’ s why they raid Ashyer.” Tears wet Ty’s cheeks as he looked at the carnage before them.

“It is a mystery, Master Ty. How it is done, I cannot guess. But perhaps it is not the dragon’ s own magic, but a magic stolen from an older time that allows them to accomplish the feat.” Cirrus’ eyes fell upon someone he recognized lying dead, and he squeezed them tight to avert tears.

Frost had risen and was walking toward his father’s ashes. Cirrus and Ty watched but made no attempt to interfere. Reaching the smoking mound, Frost knelt before it. He bowed his head and sat back on his heels and wept. Ty and Cirrus turned away, giving privacy to his grief.

“I hardly knew him. King Xan.” Ty said quietly to Cirrus, “I was practically raised as Frost’ s brother, but the king was always away.”

“I knew him well,” Cirrus said flatly. “He sent me to the wizard school in the south, and I became his most trusted advisor.”

After a moment of contemplation and more tears, Ty said, “So it’s true then. Dragons explode when they are killed. We saw fire stream out of its pierced eyes.”

“Indeed, it is true. Had Frost shot for the heart and found a space between scales, none of us would be standing here. In fact, this battlefield would have been completely wiped clean by the blast. But, I think Frost knew that. He wanted to mark the dragon that killed his father, not destroy himself and us.”

The sound of rustling from behind them made Ty and Cirrus turn around. Frost was sliding his hands into the ashes. Ty cringed, but Cirrus quickly started walking toward Frost.

“Frost ” Cirrus began.

Before Cirrus could finish, Frost had pulled a longsword of incredible quality from the ashes. Its blade was almost twice the length of a normal longsword and had a blue steel look about it. More than that, the blade’s edges twinkled as if sprinkled with diamonds. As Frost turned it in his hands it glowed slightly with powerful magic. The weapon should have weighed as much as a two-handed sword, but it felt light as a feather in Frost’s hands. He reached to touch the blade.

“Stop!” Cirrus yelled. “One touch could kill you!”

Frost did not touch the blade, but he fixed Cirrus with an accusing stare. “The dragon said a forbidden weapon had been made. How much do you know? You tell me wizard!”

Cirrus put his hand up in surrender. “I will tell you all, my king, but not here. We need to hide that sword.”

At the words “my king,” Frost dropped the sword. Ty, always with an eye for value, grabbed a fallen Olan banner and ran to it. He delicately rolled the beautiful weapon tightly in the cloth and tried to hand it back to Frost. His eyes on the battlefield now, Frost did not seem to notice the gesture and started walking toward the dead. Ty then turned and tried to offer the sword to Cirrus.

“You carry it for him for now, Master Ty. There will come a time that he will take it up on his own. Until then, remain his true friend and keep it safe. It is very important.”

As he tied it under his cloak on his back, Ty asked, “What is it?”

Cirrus kept his eyes on Frost and clenched his teeth. “A sword, Master Ty, a sword that could alter the destiny of Ashyer.”

Hours passed and Frost was returning to his companions on the hill, where they had gathered wood and relit their fire from the night before. In his hands Frost carried a few small items.

When he reached them he held out his hand to Ty. In his palm was the symbol of the Captain of the Royal Guard, a small white shield pendant with two down-pointing crossed green swords. Ty accepted it without a word. Frost then held his other hand to Cirrus. For him, Frost had found a dagger of the Order of Knights. Cirrus also accepted without a word. The last item was a scrap of purple fabric. Only one person was wearing purple cloth on the battlefield, Xan Olan. Frost tied his hair in the back using the scrap.

“So we shall not forget the sacrifices of this day,” Frost said in a somber tone. It was a tone neither Cirrus nor Ty had ever heard from him before. He seemed about ten years older. He sat by the fire and looked at Cirrus. “Now my teacher, teach me. What has transpired this day?”

Cirrus rubbed at his forehead for a moment, collecting his thoughts before he began.

“Your father knew the peace with the dragons could not last. He saw how greedy the dragon-kind are and knew they would continue to demand more each year, which they have. Also, he saw the toil of the people to keep up with the demand. He did not want the people of Olan to suffer their entire lives with no end to it. So, he began his plan. Other kingdoms have gone to war with the dragons, but all have fallen because, as you know, if you kill a dragon, the furnace within explodes destroying everything.

“He needed to create something that could battle a dragon and survive the encounter. He found the best sword-smiths and enchanters in the land, and in secret bid them make such a weapon. This year he was presented with the sword that master Ty has on his back. The blade is eternally sharp and can pierce even stone, but that’s not the incredible part. The reason I told you not to touch the blade is because of the enchantment it holds. Whatever it strikes is frozen solid. This a dragonslayer blade, the only of its kind ever imagined, one that can pierce the heart of a dragon, extinguishing its fire along with its life.”

Cirrus paused to gaze out at the battlefield. “This was not part of the plan. The dragons must have had spies that warned them of the impending attack and decided to strike first. While the goblin army distracted Olan, the other dragon destroyed the castle. It was that action that made King Xan hesitate I think, for otherwise he would have slain the dragon with the sword. It was in that second that the dragon killed your father. You, Frost, are what the dragon did not count on. I’m sure it would have gathered up the sword and destroyed it had you not attacked at that very moment. But now we have the Dragon Slayer, the Fire Douser. And perhaps we can start to change the destiny of our world.”

Frost looked into the fire for a long moment before speaking. “You let me go. You didn’t actually try to stop me from attacking the dragon because you knew what was at stake.” His gaze shifted from the fire to Cirrus.

Cirrus looked away. “Yes, my king, I knew if the dragon destroyed the blade, we were all as good as dead anyway.”

Silence fell, broken only by the cawing of distant crows and vultures gathering on the field, and the crackling of the small fire.

Ty was the first to break the silence. “Well, at least you’re a good shot, Frost. Saving the world … that could take some time.”

Frost did not respond to this, but when he spoke a moment later it was with a sorrow heavier than any of them had ever known. “My mother was in the castle.”

Ty found tears rising into his own eyes, and he buried his face in his cloak.

Cirrus lowered his head and nodded.

Frost lay himself down and closed his eyes. Ty reached to comfort him, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Cirrus did not stop him.

“Rest, men, for there are dark times ahead. I fear we will be on the run from dangers we can scarcely imagine now.” He pulled out his pipe and his tobacco pouch, because, for the moment, there was nothing else to be done.